Of Ships Long Since Sailed
by thisisawittypenname
Summary: A little GSR angst, a little Snickers undertones. Post Ep for Bang Bang 6x23


Title: Of Ships Long Since Sailed

Summary: A little GSR angst, a little Snickers undertones. Post Ep for Bang Bang (6x23)

Spoilers: If the phrase "Post-ep for Bang Bang" doesn't tip you off….

A/N: I saw the preview for the season six finale, and noticed that Sara (or at least what looked like her) was in Grissom's office and the two were apparently having a moment… wanted to make it _not_ GSR. So here's what I came up with.

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Sara's PoV

It was, would have been, nostalgic, really, if his best friend wasn't in the hospital now, a bullet lodged dangerously close to his heart; how many times in the previous years had I been in this exact position, leaning on the doorframe, _his_ doorframe, with arms crossed? Waiting for him to notice me. He always did, when he was at his desk, me lingering near his door, and I used to think it meant something. He'd always see me there, and I invented more and more excuses to lean there, in my spot, and have him look up and not ignore me.

It didn't mean anything. It never had. But still, I kept holding on to the notion that…I don't know. It was just nice to have him notice me. So I'd often frequented his doorway, leaning casually against the frame, much like I'm doing now.

Except now my posture was tired and I've rid myself of those stupid preconceptions, and, you know, I'm not even surprised that he doesn't see me this time. He's, well… I think he's kind of lost.

"Grissom"

My voice sounds loud in the stale silence of his office, even though when it left my throat it was barely a whisper. It's like a cave in here, and I swear I saw the legs of one of Grissom's 'specimens', pinned by its thorax inside a glass frame, twitch. And to think, he finds this _comforting_.

I sure knew how to pick 'em, right?

He's sitting in front of his desk, which is odd because it's the wrong side. His back is to me. He's just this defeated silhouette against the dark and, yes, creepy, lights filtering through glass jars; embalmed fetal pigs, what I could've sworn was a two-headed scorpion, and God knows what else. His shelves are a museum; not one I'd particularly want to visit, but…

"Grissom"

A little louder this time. Is it just me or does my voice echo in here? It's dark and gloomy, much like Grissom at this point I'm assuming, and I k now it's a ridiculous thought but it occurs to me that were a camera crew in here, maybe those guys from "Hard Crime" again, this would be the shot to put on a teaser-trailer or something; dank and mysterious. I try to squash the idea, its, I mean, Brass is in the hospital and the whole team is fragile right now and Grissom's starting to shrink into himself…I tend to ramble when I feel out of control, like if I keep talking I'll hit on something important and it will all be ok.

But still as I approach Grissom, not yet sure what I'm going to say, I can't keep from absentmindedly calculating the best camera angles to work with this eerie light.

I'm standing next to Grissom now, there's no way he doesn't know I'm here, but I can't think of what to say. I mean, the doctor basically put Brass' life in his hands; do we try to take the bullet out or leave it in? Consequences, risks, either way, and its all on Grissom now.

He doesn't look at me; he's staring at the floor, hands clasped with his two pointer fingers pressed together, forming a 'steeple'. He looks deep in thought, so I take the opportunity to steal a glance at him.

It sounds stupid, but his hair almost looks grayer, and with a frown twisted onto his features, the soft lines in his face become jagged and more pronounced. His shoulders are stooped, posture slumped, and I don't know how else to say this but he looks…

Old.

It happens before I can react, it's a voluntary impulse and I swear it's nowhere close to a romantic gesture, but my hand reaches out and sort of rests on his shoulder. I just watch it, this hand that's not my hand because now it has a mind of its own.

Amazingly, and by this I mean surprisingly, Grissom's hands unclasp, and slowly –as if this is all happening in slow motion- it reaches up to cover mine, and oh god, how do I say this? I just, don't want… this, to be happening. This touching. I'm ashamed to say it but I almost flinched from the contact; his hand is cold and clammy, and I think that maybe coming in here wasn't such a good idea.

I almost have to grit my teeth it's so uncomfortable, because something tells me Grissom's reading much more into this than he should be. I think it has something to do with the way his thumb's taken to tracing gently across the back of my hand.

I feel a pang of regret; it seems like Grissom's finally reaching out for human contact, but…I can't be it for him.

Not anymore.

I sort of slip my hand out of Grissom's and try not to look at him as I sit next to him in the second chair in front of his desk. His "official" chair behind the desk, empty, looms in front of us, and the shadows it casts around us are positively wicked.

"How are you doing?" I ask, and I cringe at how lame that sounds. Grissom doesn't notice.

I see his eyes kind of flicker towards me, but his head doesn't move. His voice is so quiet, "I don't know what to do, Sara."

I don't know how to respond, but Grissom continues to speak:

"What if I make the wrong choice?"

I've never seen Grissom so vulnerable, and it unnerves me. I don't like it. "You'll do what you think is best, Grissom. No one's going to fault you for it. We're all a little lost, you know?"

This time his whole face turns to study me, and I hold his gaze for as long as I can before casting my eyes down to the floor.

"Sara"

I half lift my gaze, allowing him to go on without saying anything.

"Would…I just, he's…" he rubs his temples as if trying to sort out his thoughts before continuing, "Do you want to grab some coffee, at, uh, when we go back to the hospital?" He watches me, a little expectantly, and I feel a lump grow in my throat as he adds, "With me?" in a pitifully hesitant voice.

Oh God.

I take a deep breath. "I can't." I force the words out, not daring to look at his face as I got out of the chair and make a hasty retreat out of that office. I don't want to hurt him, didn't want to hurt him, but I think I just did.

I head into the break room to collect myself, unbelieving. Grissom just asked me out?

I take a seat at the table, trying to sort things out. Had he asked a couple years ago… I would have jumped at the chance. I would have been elated. But not now.

He's not good for me. I think I've always known it, but it was so easy to focus my feeling onto him. He was unattainable, and even if the feelings I'd fostered for him all that time ago were mutual, I felt an odd sense of security knowing that he'd never act on them. He was safe. If nothing happened between us, nothing, _he_, couldn't hurt me.

He did anyways.

And now he…wants another chance?

But that ship has sailed, ever since…

Well, even before him, I guess, but Nick kind of solidified it.

It happened a while ago, at least five months. We were always close, but especially after the team got back together, after Nick was, well, buried, we, something changed. We were both more _flirty_, more playful. We worked more and more cases together. I started _feeling _things, kind of like the emotions I'd created for Grissom, but for Nick they were real.

And then one night, when we stumbled into each other on the Strip, I found out he felt the same way.

We'd walked, we talked, we…well, we ended up doing more then walking and talking. And he made me happy.

But now Grissom…

It's not as if I still have feelings for him, but he _is_ a friend, and he's hurting now. And I'm sad because I can't help him.

I stand up, vaguely registering that my legs have taken on the consistency of Jell-O. I walk over to the counter, reaching for the coffeepot, but cursed when I realized it was empty. No surprise, though, right, coz everything's going just great today?

"Damnit" I sigh.

I turn around to find a concerned looking Nick watching me, one eyebrow raised with arms crossed across his chest.

That used to be _my_ expression, I think with the faintest of smirks.

He crosses the room in three long strides and takes me in his arms. I fall into his embrace, by head rests in the familiar crook of his neck, and I can't help myself; I feel a few tears slip down my cheek even though I've squeezed my eyes shut to block them.

"I just want them both to be ok" I mumble into his shirt, and I feel his chin rest on the top of my head.

"Me too, Sara. Me too."

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A/N: You know the drill, read, review… review twice if you want. Your call :P 


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